DC 0 Prologue: Christmas at the Cape
by aubreysmom
Summary: A look into Myles' Christmas holiday. A direct continuation of the episode Silent Night, from Season 1, so artistic license taken, and a slightly different track than the show eventually took. This also became a prologue to the DC series, so start here.


**Christmas at the Cape**

_Originally Published:_ 12/17/03 –

**I realize I have the chronology mixed up slightly; "The Leak" came after "Silent Night." But I'd already written that part, and it didn't seem right to take it out.**

**Obviously I have taken _major_ artistic license here, since we know very little about Myles' family, from the show. But the Massachusetts towns are real, and being a New England native myself... Having said that, Happy Holidays and enjoy! **

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The sound of a pleasant baritone voice humming "Deck the Halls" permeated the Bullpen at about 2 p.m., as people were finishing up and heading out for the Christmas holiday. Lucy stepped over to get her coat, and realized that the sound was coming from their own favorite "Scrooge." He stopped abruptly as she moved into his line of sight.

"Would you just admit it?" she said, smiling. "Catching the Santa Bandit gave even _you_ just a few ounces of Christmas Spirit, didn't it?"

Myles Leland III thought about that for a moment as he buttoned his overcoat. "Well, it wasn't as good as the toy train I got when I was eight, but…not bad." He smiled and started out the door, then turned with a flourish and spoke to the room at large.

"Colleagues—I bid you _Joyeux Noël_. Christmas at the Cape awaits."

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Myles settled into his first-class seat (even on short hops like this one, his long frame appreciated the extra legroom) and closed his eyes. He let everything associated with work drift away, and allowed his mind to wander. It was Christmas Eve, and in a little over three hours, he would be home.

As much as he hated all the "chaos and confusion" that seemed to reign between Thanksgiving and Christmas, as much as his co-workers thought he was Ebenezer Scrooge personified, _this_ was what he waited for with as much anticipation as any child waited for Santa. Christmas in the Leland world was about _family_ – for all their affluence, family was the most important thing, and he sorely missed it those years when he took his turn being "on call" at the Bureau. The Christmas Spirit was alive and well in Falmouth, Massachusetts.

Ninety minutes later, he stepped from the plane and made a beeline to the rental car desk. A little advance planning had paid off — he was on the road away from Logan Airport before the last passenger stepped off the plane. Traffic in Boston was heavy, but he knew this place, and navigated it easily.

The world was white; Massachusetts almost always had more snow than D.C. during December, and as he left the metropolis behind, the twilit snow was almost silver in the street lamps. He sighed contentedly - there was just _something_ about New England, especially if your roots were here, that calmed the soul and made the rest of the world go away.

It took about an hour and a half to get from Boston to Falmouth, if the traffic and the weather cooperated. And it was almost like going back in time—most of the houses had withstood over five decades (in some cases, many, _many _more) of the wind, rain and snow which Cape Cod regularly dealt out in abundance.

As he got closer to the Cape, very few of the houses had more than single strings of white or multi-colored Christmas lights stretched over eaves and around columns. And very few of them _didn't_ have a spruce wreath on the door. That was all they needed. None of those "new-fangled" icicle lights or inflatable snowmen out here—no, sir. If the deer on your front lawn moved, it was because they were _alive_. New Englanders had their priorities, and their quiet ways.

As one old fisherman used to put it, when 9-year-old Myles Leland used to help him at his boat for the sheer joy of listening to his stories: "Son, if it ain't broke in a hundred years of doin', it don't need fixin'." Myles smiled to himself as he remembered. Bart MacAphee had died some ten years ago, doing what he loved best, fishing Nantucket Bay for lobster and crab – living life on his own terms, and hang the rest of the world.

He smiled more as the names of the towns and landmarks passed by on the exit signs of I-495: Cochesset, Assawompset Pond, Great Quittacas, Mattapoisett. As kids, he and his brothers always had races, during car trips, to see who could say the intricate Indian names, accurately, the fastest.

He turned off the freeway at Buzzard's Bay, then stopped for a few minutes in the small town of Cataumet. This was an annual tradition, when he got the travel arrangements worked out just right. It was 5:30 – he was cutting it close this time. The pastry shop was open, but he could see Edith MacAphee getting ready to close up.

He watched her from the window for a moment, scrubbing the maple counter until it gleamed. When Bart died, his widow hadn't wanted any help from anyone. She was as tough as they came, and proclaimed she didn't need "coddlin'." Within a month, she had sold the home in Falmouth where they'd lived all their lives, and moved into a small house here in Cataumet. The rest of the money, and her considerable cooking skills, Edith had invested into this shop, and now she made quite a respectable living for herself. She even shipped orders to D.C. during the holidays, thanks to a little free advertising (and numerous tastings) at FBI office parties.

The bell rang merrily as he stepped in. The plump, gray-haired lady looked up, and a big smile wreathed her lined face, followed by an exaggerated scowl. She shook a finger at him.

"Myles Leland! You almost missed me this time – you're late! I've got pies to make, you know."

Myles laughed and came over to give her a big hug. "I know, Edith, and I'm sorry. The traffic from Boston was worse than I anticipated. Merry Christmas." He handed her a small package. "I would have stopped at the house if I'd been any later. Come to think of it, I _should _have been later – then I could snatch a couple of your mincemeat tarts. You're the best cook on the Cape." He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Just don't tell my grandmother I said that."

She patted his cheek. "And I can see the FBI still hasn't dulled that silver tongue of yours."

She opened the present; it was a lovely rose quartz cameo pin, set in sterling silver, that he'd seen in Dillard's and known was for Edith. "Oh, Myles, it's beautiful – thank you. By the way, I heard something from your grandmother about you getting shot this past year – you tell those hooligans down in D.C. they'd better watch who they're shooting at, or I'll come down there and tan some hides."

He raised an eyebrow at her, smiling. "If you ever came down there, I'd have nothing to do inside of a week. Our nation's capital would be crime-free. They'd transfer me to Butte, Montana."

"Well, we can't have that, now, can we?" She smiled at him and picked up a cake box from the back counter. "I know you're anxious to get to your grandparents' house, and I have to get home and get ready for fifteen grandchildren tomorrow. These are for you – mincemeat tarts. My last project here today."

He opened the lid and sniffed. "They're still warm! Edith, you're an angel." He hugged her again and kissed her cheek. "Merry Christmas. I'll stop in on my way back through and put a dent in your inventory. We've got an office party coming up on New Year's, and I want to see if I can line up some more customers for you. And you haven't forgotten our special project, have you?"

"Of course I haven't forgotten. I just wish you'd let me use the recipe in the shop. I've had a couple of people sample them when I've been baking, and they want to order them."

He shook his head. "Edith, you know that if the recipe were mine to give away, I would in a heartbeat. But it's not. Besides, if you started using it all the time, my secret would be ruined."

"Would that be so bad?"

"It'd be a tragedy. I've worked so hard to convince everyone to the opposite."

She laughed and swatted his arm affectionately. "You're shameless, you know that? Off with you, then. Merry Christmas, Myles."

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Myles stood outside his grandparents' house, leaning against the car and letting the emotions wash over him like a warm blanket. Over the years, as his brothers had married and now had kids of their own, his parents' house in Hyannis, just 10 minutes away from Falmouth, got a little crowded at Christmas. So Myles had decided, about five years ago, to stay at his grandparents' when he visited during the holidays. The rest of the family would be over here bright and early on Christmas morning anyway, and this gave him a chance for some quiet time to mentally shift fully from work to home.

He loved this ancient house, tenderly cared for and kept up for more than a hundred years. The old Cape-Cod farmhouse, sitting nearly on the Atlantic sand, was surrounded by cedar and sea-spray. Simple lights and the ubiquitous wreath accented it for the holidays, as well as a huge tree showcased in the bay window. He knew that his grandmother was, at this moment, stirring oyster stew and trying to find space for the mountain of baked goods that filled the kitchen. His grandfather, having lit a fire in the stone fireplace and made sure the woodbox was filled, would be in his favorite chair reading _The Wall Street Journal_, and humming to himself.

Myles took a moment to look up into a sky filled with stars, undimmed by the ten thousand lights that lit up D.C. every night. _And there appeared in the heavens a new star…_ a thought that usually didn't enter his mind at Christmas until he reached this spot. Here, as no other place on the planet, one could actually feel peace and joy as simply as breathing.

He took a breath. "Lord," he said softly to the heavens, "we both know I don't spend a lot of time praying, except when we're on a deadline to stop something awful from happening, but…tonight…I just wanted to say 'thank you'…for everything." He bowed his head in a silent "Amen," looked up once more with a smile, then got his bags out of the car and headed for home.

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After dinner, Myles stretched out in his favorite spot—_if the team could see me now_, he thought— on the floor in front of the fireplace, with a couple of huge pillows behind his back and head. He'd offered to help his grandmother with the dishes, but she'd insisted that she had it under control. "Go relax," she said. "That's why Christmas Eve dinner is oyster stew and rolls – minimal cleanup. I'll be done in just a few minutes, and then I want to hear all that's been going on."

The pillows had been required in the past few years, but the spot had been his favorite since childhood, whether he was here, at his parents' house, or in his apartment in D.C. Myles had discovered, at about age four, that if you laid on the floor, even the biggest Christmas tree looked bigger, and it had been a secret joy of his ever after. There were certain traditions that just weren't messed with, even if nobody else knew why they were traditions. No one had ever asked him, and he'd never volunteered, but the nieces and nephews all knew that Uncle Myles got the spot by the fireplace and the tree. He usually ended up sharing it, as their pillow, but first claim was his alone.

Now he gazed at the tree, swept up in a wave of memories as his grandfather's tenor voice wove its way through "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." He tried to remember a year when they'd had a "themed" tree, color-coordinated and all that, like the ones he often saw at parties in the Capitol, but he couldn't think of any. There were a few wonderful traits that his family had refused to give up even when the Lelands made it big in the finance world. One of them was the popcorn-strung, gingerbread-ornamented Christmas tree at Gram's house, complete with her collection of ornaments from all over the world. Most were handcrafted, wood or glass, and there was a story behind each one. Even the year he'd been accepted into the FBI Academy was commemorated here – somewhere, she'd found a representation of the FBI Seal, had it engraved on the back with his name and the year, and now it hung on the tree.

"And what are you thinking so deeply about?" His grandmother's voice permeated his thoughts as she came over to the sofa, sat down and picked up her knitting.

He looked over at her. "Oh, just wondering where on earth you found that FBI ornament. I wasn't aware the Bureau had a gift shop – it must be well hidden, because I haven't seen it in the ten years I've been there."

She laughed. "Actually, I called down there shortly after you started your training at Quantico and asked if there were something with the seal on it I could use to make a Christmas ornament. They were a little surprised, if I remember correctly. I explained that my grandson had just been accepted there, and I had a tradition of keeping ornaments for special achievements. They asked for my name, my address, your name…I suspect there's a file on me there somewhere. But, a week later, two very nice agents from the Boston field office showed up on the doorstep with the seal you see in the middle of that ornament. I simply took it over to Allen's Trophy, had the medallion made and engraved, and they glued the seal on it."

Myles shook his head, chuckling. "Nobody ever said anything to me about it, and that's something I'd surely have heard about at Quantico. It's just a step below boot camp. I _will _check, when I get back, to see if they have a file on you, though."

M. Robert Leland (the First) folded up his paper. "Mystery solved. She never told me how she did it, either. So, tell us all the latest buzz in D.C…."

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He had purposely left the curtains open, and now a Christmas Day sunrise pulled Myles out of a dreamless sleep. He allowed himself the luxury of waking up slowly, savoring the aroma of coffee and fresh blueberry muffins wafting up from the kitchen. Then he stretched and got up, knowing it wouldn't be long before the house would be filled with family, and not wanting to miss a moment of it.

He showered and shaved quickly, dressed and set the room straight. Then, pausing in the doorway, he drank in the surroundings again. This room was the one he had always slept in when he stayed at Gram's house, and it was _exactly_ as he remembered. The only thing that ever changed was the quilt on the bed, and that was only when the previous one wore out.

Myles let his breath out in a laugh at himself. He'd once commented to Dimitrius that people who liked old things were "the ones who can't afford new." It was true; he liked new things, and being able to afford them. Yet he wouldn't change this room, this house, for all the money in the world.

He headed downstairs and greeted his grandmother with a kiss. She was stuffing a goose, their traditional Christmas dinner, and he shook his head at her, smiling, as he poured a cup of coffee. "You didn't even go to bed last night, did you?"

"Of course I did," she replied. "I went to bed at 10, the same as you. I just don't sleep as much as I used to, and it _is_ Christmas morning. The more I get done early, the more time I have to enjoy…"

There was a _BANG!_ of the door opening, and a chorus of small feet and loud voices.

"…the party." She wiped her hands and they went out to the foyer.

"Uncle Myles! Uncle Myles!" Four-year-old Molly Leland threw herself at him, and Myles swung her up and around.

"Hey, how's my favorite niece?"

She pulled back from the big hug she was giving him, and looked at him sadly.

He matched her expression. "What's wrong?"

Her little face was grave, framed by her dark hair. "I'm your _only_ niece. David told me I can't be your favorite if I'm the only one."

He touched the end of her nose with his finger, then whispered to her, "Don't you listen to David. Nine-year-olds don't know everything. You _are_ my favorite niece, even if you are the only one. That makes you extra-special to me, okay?"

Her blue eyes lit up, and she gave him a big smile. "Okay!" One more hug, then he swung her down and she made a beeline for Gram. Myles watched her fondly—_Such a beauty she's going to be, and what a character_.

He turned just in time to brace for five nephews hitting him all at once. Ranging in age from fifteen-year-old Tad to six-year old Robert, the Leland boys thought Uncle Myles, as an FBI agent, was just a step below Superman. The finance world just doesn't have the same appeal when you're young.

"We've got the snow forts all built!" crowed eight-year-old Matthew.

"You're gonna come play, aren't you?" twelve-year-old Andrew asked. "It's not that cold. And the snow's perfect for a snowball fight."

Myles laughed. "As if I'd miss a chance to work with a crack unit like you all. But you better go say hello to Gram and Grandfather, or they'll take your presents back." He was standing there alone a split-second later, still chuckling. Then he headed out to help his brothers and their wives unload the cars.

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It was a glorious day of catching up, reminiscing, gifts of the heart as much as of the mall, a spectacular dinner, a two-hour snowball war (that even Gram got in on), carols around the piano, and Molly finally giving out and falling asleep in Myles' lap as they sat on the sofa by the tree.

He watched the boys playing Monopoly at the dining room table; Robert, the youngest, was cleaning out the rest of them, as usual – the newest Leland tycoon. His grandparents were still at the piano with his brothers and sisters-in-law, and his father was engrossed in the fly-fishing book Myles had given him. There was laughter and love all around, and he quietly reveled in it.

A hand touched his arm, and he looked up. "You want me to take Molly?" his mother asked.

"Not on your life," he replied with a smile.

Anne Leland smiled back. "I didn't think so. She thinks 'Uncle Myles' is pretty special, you know. She's been talking about nothing but seeing you for the past week."

He looked down at the little girl. "I think she's pretty special, too. I just wish I got more chance to see her. She's grown up so much. Maybe I can get Bradley and Kim to bring her down to D.C. some time. I bet Sue would even let her meet Levi – that's Sue's helping dog. A really beautiful Golden Retriever, very gentle."

"Sue - that's the deaf woman on your team?"

Myles nodded. "Mom, she's incredible. I was reluctant to work with her at first, but… I have to admit, she's a great asset to us. She reminds me a little of how I was when I first started at the Bureau –eager to prove myself, to learn all I could about the job so I could be my sharpest. It's been a fresh perspective. Plus," he added with a grin, "it's fun to see Jack Hudson a little breathless. He likes her – a lot."

His mother smiled again. "This Sue must be quite a lady – _you_ don't hand out compliments arbitrarily. Tell you what – I have to make a trip down to the Capitol in February for a luncheon with Senator Farnsworth's wife. Why don't I bring Molly with me, you can take a day off and the two of you can hang out together?"

"Sounds good to me." He turned back to the dining room. The boys were putting away the game, the parents were gathering up coats, and Gram was in the kitchen assembling "take-home" boxes of goodies. "Looks like everybody's packing up."

"When do you head back?"

He sighed. "I have to be back at the office on the 27th, so I thought I'd catch an evening flight tomorrow. I have to stop at Edith's on the way back to Logan Airport, but that's it. I'll come by the house about 9 am – we'll have three or four hours still."

"That's good – we miss you, you know."

Molly's mother had come to get her from Myles, and now he gave his mother a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "I miss you all, too. And before too long, I'm going to buy a house big enough to get everybody down to D.C. for the holidays, the years I have to be on call."

"That would be wonderful."

"It won't be 'Christmas at the Cape,' but I think we'll manage. We'll be together."

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The morning of the 27th found Myles at his desk, perusing _The_ _Washington Post_ before the shift started. Bobby walked in. "Well, good morning. You're here early, mate."

Myles looked up, then at his watch. "So are you, by your normal timetable."

"Very funny. So, how was your Christmas?"

Myles leaned back in his chair and let his breath out in what sounded like exasperation. "Oh, let's see…a house full of relatives I see about once every six months, kids screaming and running around, dodging random barrages of snowballs…hmmm…dare I say 'same old, same old'?"

Bobby shook his head. "You really get no joy out of this season, do you? Honestly, just once in your life you should take a look at what Christmas has to offer besides shopping and annoyances." He got to his desk and surveyed it, smiling. "For example, you could take a lesson from whoever it is that leaves this box on my desk. Every year, without fail, for the past three years."

In the middle of Bobby's desk was a flat gold-wrapped box with a red bow on it. He sat down and opened the card attached. "'A Taste of Home for the Holidays. From your Secret Santa.' Typewritten, the same thing every year, wrapped exactly the same way, no signature, not so much as a fingerprint on it – I know, because I took the last box down to the lab last year and had them dust it."

Myles looked disinterested. "Why on earth would you bother?"

The Aussie opened the box, revealing several neat rows of pastries. "Because I swear this is my grandmother's recipe for strawberry tarts. Something I hadn't tasted since we moved to the States from Melbourne when I was seven. _This_ was Christmas to me, growing up, just like Jack and his mom's cinnamon rolls. I've asked my mother, my grandmother, several of her friends in Melbourne – no one remembers, or admits to, giving out the recipe. But someone went to an awful lot of trouble to do this; simply because of a Christmas spirit _you_ don't think exists. I may never find out who does this, but I wish them a Merry Christmas for making mine a little more special. And you, my dear 'Ebenezer,' can never fully understand that because all you focus on are the negative things that come from people forgetting why we celebrate it in the first place."

Getting nothing more than the same bored gaze from Myles, Bobby threw up his hands. "Forget it. I happened to have had a wonderful holiday – and your cynicism isn't going to dampen it. I'm going to go get a cup of coffee down in the cafeteria, where people actually _enjoyed _their two days off." He stalked out of the Bullpen, still muttering to himself.

Myles let the sly smile work its way onto his face. "Not a clue, mate," he said softly

As much as he'd have loved to share every detail of his own "wonderful holiday," right down to showing off recent photos of Molly and the boys, it was more fun to let the team think as they did. _Especially_ Bobby Manning. The more Bobby was convinced that Myles was a total Scrooge, the less likely he'd notice that, for those same three years, Myles had been at his desk, early, every time Bobby discovered the gold box.

He remembered a conversation, three years and a couple of months ago, when he and Bobby had been working together on surveillance with several other agents. Somehow the conversation had swung around to family traditions, and Bobby had told them about his grandmother and her strawberry tarts. It had taken a little doing, discreetly tracking down a phone number in Melbourne, but it was worth it—and got to be more so every time Bobby went off on him like just now. Myles put his feet up on his desk, crossing them at the ankles, clasped his hands behind his head, and let the smile get broader.

_Bless you, Edith and ladies all, for keeping our little secret. Merry Christmas, Bobby._

FIN


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